


Pass Away (Or Come In Handy)

by honeywholewheat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 10:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeywholewheat/pseuds/honeywholewheat
Summary: Dean wasn’t sure exactly when the realization set in.





	Pass Away (Or Come In Handy)

**Author's Note:**

> title inspired by family and genus by shakey graves

Dean wasn’t sure exactly when the realization set in.

Somewhere between the foothills of Nebraska and Lake Michigan, it hit Dean like a punch in the gut. It was like one of those carnival games, the kind where you swing a hammer down until the weight dings the bell at the top. He was sure the “ding” came on the road. It had been pouring rain non-stop since sunrise, and now it was coming down in sheets on top of the Impala. Sam had been whining for the past hour for Dean to pull over, he couldn’t even see five feet in front of the car and you’re gonna get us killed, pull over for Christ’s sake. Dean conceded only because he could use a break anyway. His eyes were tired of straining against the grey haze of the storm and it was no fun driving if he had to go slow.

Dean eased over to the shoulder of the road, the rain relentless, and turned up the Metallic cassette in the tape player. Sam shot him a look, but it was a while before he spoke.

“Thanks, Dean.” Sam finally said, barely audible over the music and the storm. Dean, stupid, stupid Dean, had glanced over at him. And that’s when it hit him.

Sam looked at him, face all soft and earnest, illuminated only by the passing headlights of a few brave cars. Dean saw him in outline and shadow and when a sixteen-wheeler passed, he was lit up like the moon.

Dean wanted to kiss him.

The funny thing was the feeling came like muscle memory, no different than how he’d never forget how to load a rifle. It was in his bones. Realizing wasn't the right word. He was remembering it.

It took him half a second to recognize the feeling, and another half a second to consciously halt it in its tracks. Dean stared dumbly at Sam, all of a sudden unsure of where to place his hands.

“For pulling over, I mean.” Sam continued without a hitch. And just like that, it was over. Sam was digging through the bag at his feet for a flashlight, and Dean was himself again. But the feeling still nagged at the back of his head, even as the storm lessened and they took off down the interstate again. He tried desperately to remember where it had started, but trying to trace the feeling back to its origin was impossible. Everything was so tangled up with Sam, trying to dissect his feelings when it came to his brother was no use.

So, Dean elected to ignore it.

 

 

It was the first time they’d ever gotten snowed in on a hunt. They were tracking a Wendigo in Wyoming when a nasty blizzard hit, flickering the lights in the hotel room all night. When Dean emerged from their room the next morning, the entire world had gone white. He was staring forlornly at the Impala (buried in snow, poor baby) when Sam finally made it outside.

“Looks like we’re not going anywhere,” Sam said, voice still hoarse with sleep. Dean glanced up at him, the same familiar feeling threatening to topple into his awareness. “I’ll go see if that Keurig in the front office is working.” Dean watched Sam go, trudging off through the snow, all hunched over against the cold. By the time Dean had shuffled back into their room and cranked up the heat, Sam had returned with two styrofoam cups filled to the brim with shitty coffee.

“Hmm,” Dean hummed, appreciating the warmth of the cup in his hand, “I’ve just decided we’re going to Arizona next.” Sam huffed a laugh, contorting his body to curl up into the leather chair beside the TV.

“I don’t mind the cold.” Sam shrugged. “Kinda missed it when I was in California, actually.” Sam seemed to catch himself, sentence hitching at the end. It was so cold in the room, Dean could see his breath. He sighed, watching it curl out of his mouth like smoke. As much as Dean hated to admit it, Stanford was still rubbed a bit too raw for the two of them to just sit down and talk about. There was certainly no dishing about parties or professors between them.

“Yeah, well, when we freeze to death in our beds tonight, it’ll be your fault.” Dean finally muttered. Sam laughed, disbelieving and a least a little bit grateful. Dean settled back under the covers of his bed, coffee still in hand.

“You’re seriously gonna sleep all day?” Sam accused, unfolding himself from the chair. Dean watched him carefully as he approached the bed.

“No,” Dean shrugged, “I’m just preserving body heat.”

“Move over.” Sam insisted.

“No, you’ll take all the covers,” Dean whined as he moved over. Sam shoved at him, almost causing Dean to slosh his coffee all over the bed’s already stained sheets. Dean glared, and before he knew it, his coffee was forgotten on the side table and he was wresting Sam to the ground between the two beds. Sam gave a surprised yelp that quickly dissolved into another bout of incredulous laughter.

“Get off of me, fat ass.” Sam quipped, shoving at Dean’s chest.

“Fuck off,” Dean responded. Suddenly, Sam sat up, and Dean was all too quickly confronted with the fact that he had been, for lack of a better word, straddling him.

“Uh,” Dean muttered. The muscle memory was back, and this time, it was much more insistent. And irritating.

“What are you trying to do, cut off the circulation in my legs?” Sam grinned, gesturing to the part of his body still trapped under Dean.

“Uh,” Dean repeated smartly. Scrambling off of him, Dean stood up stiffly, all of a sudden confronted with how cold the room was when he wasn’t literally pressed against Sam. Sam stood up gingerly. Everything was more fragile in the cold.

“Stop being a baby,” Sam said, seemingly unaffected by what had just transpired. He climbed into Dean’s bed with no more fanfare, settling resolutely under the covers. For the sake of warmth, Dean joined him.

“Only if you stop being such an annoying bitch.” Dean huffed. Sam rolled his eyes, giving Dean’s shoulder another shove.

“Fine.” Sam shrugged, rolling away from Dean. For a surreal moment, Dean felt like they had just had a lover’s quarrel, Sam turning away from him in bed like a scorned spouse. Then, a pillow smacked the side of Dean’s head. Sam grinned at him, tongue peeking out between his teeth. Without a word, Dean stood up, ignoring Sam’s half-joking apologies as he shoved open their front door. He re-entered with a handful of snow. Sam shot up in bed.

“Dean-” he held up his hands in a gesture of concession. Dean just smirked. “Dean, don’t!” At this point, Sam had scrambled halfway to the bathroom. Dean chucked the snowball squarely at his chest. Sam gasped at the impact, watching the snow fall to the carpeted floor, leaving a dark, wet mark on his t-shirt.

“You’re so dead.” He ran at Dean. Dean moved to dodge but it was useless, since Sam charged right past him, outside into the snow. Standing in three-degree weather in a t-shirt. Dean stared at him through the motel doorway.

“Sam, get inside, you’re gonna get hypothermia like an idiot.” Dean insisted.

“Chicken.” Sam dared. That was the final straw.

The snowball fight that was mostly just the two of them shoving each other into snow banks lasted until Dean had lost feeling in all of his fingers and Sam looked like he might shake himself apart with shivering. They traded hot showers quickly, and without any more fuss, they were back in Dean’s bed, huddled together to compensate for the mediocre heating system of the motel room. Sam finished a half-eaten protein bar in his duffle bag and mumbled something about catching up on his sleep. He was out like a light. Sharing a bed with him like they were kids again, Dean felt a rush of affection come over him, foreign and incessantly familiar. It had always been like this, the two of them sharing some shitty bed in the middle of winter, trying desperately to keep warm. It had always been Sam, with his hair still damp at the ends from the shower, going to bed with socks on and driving Dean fucking crazy all the damn time.

They did end up sleeping for most of the day. Dean felt warm and content, despite the sub-zero temperatures outside. When he woke up again, the sky was tinged purple and his arm had gone numb from Sam lying on it. He wanted to kiss him, he thought sleepily. He went back to sleep before he let the thought gain any more ground.

 

 

Dean was a pretty tough guy when it came to excessive amounts of blood. But watching Sam swear and sweat in the passenger seat, bleeding heavily from the gash on his side, made Dean feel very, very nausea. But if there was one thing Dean could do no matter what, it was drive. So he drove, a steady ten miles above the speed limit, back to their piece of shit motel. Dean hated Florida. He swore in that moment they’d never come back.

“You’re ok, you’re ok,” Dean mumbled on repeat as he parked the Impala in front of their small cabin, rushing around to help Sam out. He shouldered his brother’s weight like it was nothing, leading them carefully back into their room. The heat was so damp and sticky Dean felt like he could drown in it. It was hard to tell where the humidity ended and the blood began. Sam let out a faint groan as Dean set him down on the bed.

“I totally had him.” Sam insisted, voice shaky and strained. Dean glared at him, rushing to his duffle for their half-assed first aid kit and their medicinal whiskey.

“Shut up.” Dean insisted, kneeling down in front of Sam. He tugged out his hunting knife, carefully cutting off Sam’s shirt.

“That being said,” Sam hissed at the whiskey came in contact with his wound, “no more swamp monsters. That’s a new rule.”

“We have rules?” Dean asked, talking to distract himself from just how deep the cuts were. He set to work wiping away the rest of the blood.

“Of course we have rules,” Sam rolled his eyes, still managing to be annoyed at Dean even while he was bleeding out in some motel room in Florida. Fucking Florida. “Driver picks the music, something about cake.”

“Right,” Dean grinned, glad he had at least taught Sam some important things.

“Well, this is my new rule.” Sam closed his eyes, trusting Dean implicitly to fix him. Dean tried to keep his hands from shaking. “No more swamp monsters.”

The stitches came out surprisingly clean. Dean admired his handiwork.

“You’re damn lucky you have me, you know.” He muttered once he had cleaned the blood off his hands. Sam smiled at him, still a bit woozy from blood loss.

“I know.” He said, so earnest it made Dean’s stomach drop. He really shouldn’t have wanted to kiss someone whose blood he had just washed off his hands, but damn it, he really did. Illuminated in orange by the bedside lamp, Sam looked like he was lit up from the inside. He smiled at Dean sincerely.

“Thanks, doctor.” He gestured to his stitches. Dean shrugged.

“You’d do the same for me.” He brushed it off. Sam stood up. Dean suddenly and desperately wished he hadn’t cut Sam’s shirt off. He wanted to grab Sam’s arm and do something ridiculous.

“Yeah, I would,” Sam said and brushed past Dean into the bathroom. Dean was left feeling breathless and water-logged. No more swamp monsters.

 

 

In some dingy bar in Colorado, the kind only trucker’s stopped at, Dean realized getting drunk just made it worse. Sam sat in the booth from him, limbs lose and happy, drinking his now lukewarm beer.

“Man, you had no chance. She was out of your league.” Sam scoffed, one arm draped full across the back of the torn leather booth. He took up so much space, in the real world and in Dean’s head, it was hard not to pay attention.

“Please,” Dean slurred, “she was definitely into me.” The “she” in question was the bartender, who had been clearly indifferent to both Sam and Dean. They both knew this, but that didn't matter. They’d still play the game.

“Yeah, whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes, taking another swig of his beer. For a moment, Dean thought he saw something a bit stiffer cross Sam’s otherwise relaxed expression. It passed the second Sam zeroed in on the jukebox tucked in a corner near their booth. “Oh shit!” He exclaimed, rising shakily to examine it. Dean followed, one hand half resting on his brother’s back, trying to keep him steady.

“They’ve got Metallic,” Dean noticed approvingly, pressed up against Sam’s shoulder, squinting down at the titles.

“Cool, it’s got the same old man taste in music you do,” Sam smirked. Dean pointed a finger at him accusingly.

“You take that back.” Sam just grinned at him, looking like he was something dangerous. Dean was beginning to think he was.

“Never.” Sam resolved, turning back to the track list. He finally settled on some newer song Dean didn’t recognize. Dean pouted, realized he was pouting, and straightened his expression, trying to seem unaffected.

“They used to play this all the time at frat parties,” Sam said casually. The comment shouldn’t have meant anything, but it still hit Dean right in the chest.

“Oh.” He responded, trying not to come across as sullen. Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Let’s go.” He decided after a moment, giving Dean’s arm a soft tug. Dean nodded, only because the thought of remaining in the bar suddenly became vastly unappealing. They paid with a few crumpled bills and made their way out into the parking lot, still slick with the last rainfall. A large neon sign advertising BEER hung above the entrance way, where Dean, not knowing what he was doing, stopped Sam with a hand to the chest.

“Yeah?” Sam asked, all lit up in red.

“Do you ever miss it?” Dean asked. Sam looked at him, brow furrowed. Dean was torn halfway between anger and what felt a lot like fear. Not that he would know.

“College, you mean?” Sam clarified. Dean nodded. “Sometimes.” Sam shrugged. Dean could at least appreciate his honesty. “But not really.”

“You can miss it,” Dean said, hand still heavy on Sam’s chest, “I’m not gonna start throwing a fit, you know.” Sam raised an eyebrow.

“The food was ok, and the people were nice,” he said, “but the music sucked.” Dean laughed. A car sloshed through a puddle into the parking lot startling Dean, whose drunken mind hadn’t been able to focus on anything but Sam and the light and the feeling of his heartbeat under Dean’s hand.

“Damn right,” Dean muttered approvingly, finally stepping back and making his way across the parking lot to the Impala. He glanced back, finding Sam still standing under that red neon light, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “You coming?” Dean asked.

“Of course.” Sam smiled.

Nevada dried Dean out instantly. He felt like his skin was pulled too tight over his muscles, leaving him exposed and pissed off. When he fired about five salt rounds at a ghost that had disappeared after the first one, Sam began to suspect something was up.

“Are you alright?” Sam asked while they were crowded over the grave, watching the flames lick the wood of the coffin. Usually, salt and burns didn’t require such attentiveness, but since they were in the desert, Dean wanted to stick around to make sure they didn’t burn the whole state down with a brush fire.

“Fine.” Dean insisted. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him, as intense as the desert heat. The ghost they had been hunting, some poor bastard trampled to death by a stampede of horses back when Manifest Destiny was the hot new trend, had given Dean quite a shove into the sand, leaving him feeling like his whole body had been burned. He spared a glance over at Sam, who was watching him with pinched concentration.

“You’ve been mad as shit since we started this case, man.” Sam barreled on. He was nothing if not stubborn.

“I’m fine,” Dean repeated, shoulder still tense like he was in a fight, “just drop it.”

“Dean,” Sam began. Dean threw his hands up in exasperation, tired and annoyed and so hot he felt like he might die.

“Seriously, Sam,” He shouted, “drop it!” Sam sighed, eyes following the smoke trails upwards out of the grave and to the sky.

“You’re being an asshole,” Sam said, voice tight. Dean knew he was, but at this point, he wasn’t sure how he could stop.

“Can we just finish this fucking job?” Dean demanded, gesturing at the grave.

“Not if you’re gonna be a dick!” Sam said, clearly exasperated. “Jesus, Dean, just tell me what I did wrong and we can move on.” Dean hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

“What?” He asked, feeling a few drops of sweat come to rest on his upper lip.

“Just tell me what I did,” Sam repeated, exhaustion heavy in his voice.

“Sam,” Dean cut him off, all of a sudden feeling like the biggest idiot in the world, “you didn’t do anything. I’m just an asshole.” Sam smiled earnestly.

“You’re not an asshole.” He insisted. Dean raised an eyebrow. “I promise,” Sam said, all of a sudden entering Dean’s space like he belonged there. Dean looked up at him. The urge to kiss him had become like radio static, constant and usually unrecognizable. Now, it was at the forefront of his mind, prevalent like an itch.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean muttered, his voice quiet under the crackle of flames, “you’re just a bitch.”

“Jerk.” Sam shoved at his shoulders. Dean grinned. The world had righted itself again, for the most part.

They stayed beside the grave looking up at the impossibly full sky long after the flames finally died down. Dean listened while Sam talked about some Greek myth and traced constellations with an invisible thread.

“We should go to Vegas,” Dean suggested, leaning against the Impala’s windshield.

“I’m not letting you gamble away what little money we have,” Sam said, chin resting on top of his knees.

“You’re no fun, you know that?” Dean said. Sam glanced back at him, barely visible in the overwhelming darkness of the desert. Dean could only see his outline. He looked like a ghost, Dean realized. If he wanted, he could put his hand right through him.

“Wanna go to the Grand Canyon?” Sam asked after a moment.

“Sure.” Dean shrugged. Even in the darkness, Dean knew Sam was smiling.

 

 

They were somewhere in the midwest, that much Dean was sure of. He felt like he was trapped in one of those old cartoons, where the same landscape just repeated itself over and over again. Everything was corn and wheat and flat road. He was going crazy.

“Sam.” He said, poking his brother in the shoulder. Sam glanced up from his book. “Sam. Entertain me.”

“I’m not your dancing monkey Dean.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Well, I’m about two seconds away from losing my mind out here, and we both know I’m the brains of this operation.” This got Sam’s attention back, thank God. “So it’s in your best interest to entertain me.”

“Fine.” Sam conceded, adjusting his book, “The doors of the empty houses swung open, and drifted back and forth in the-”

“Sam.” Dean poked him again. Sam groaned.

“What?” He asked.

“Start from the beginning.” Dean grinned. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Ok, but only if you shut up,” Sam said. Dean nodded fervently.

“To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains

came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.”

They got all the way to chapter four before the sun started to dip below the horizon and Dean suggested they find some lodgings for the night. Sam agreed, dog-earring the book where they left off. It didn’t take them long to find a motel. They were in that strange purgatory between hunts, where Sam picked up all the local newspapers he could find and stayed up way too late researching, just to give himself something to do. Times like this always made Dean feel restless. He swore up and down he didn’t like putting himself in danger, but when things got this slow and boring, Dean felt like a junkie waiting for his next hit.

“Find anything?” Dean asked, leaning over Sam’s laptop to look at whatever was on his screen.

“Sort of.” Sam said, alternating tabs between local obits, “three men, all around the same age, killed by strangulation. All lived alone, in houses with no signs of forced entry.” Sam glanced up at Dean. This close, Dean could see a light flush across Sam’s cheek. He wanted to press his fingers to it, to see if it was warm. “Wanna check it out?” Sam asked

“God, yes,” Dean said, straightening back up into reality. “If we spend one more day driving with nowhere to go I might combust.”

“That’s only because you have the attention span of a three-year-old,” Sam said, watching Dean flop onto his bed.

“Not true! I paid attention to your stupid book.” Dean reminded.

“Yeah, I guess you did.” Sam agreed with a smile. Sometimes, Sam’s voice got so gentle, Dean felt like he could fall asleep all wrapped up in it. His stupid brother with his soft edges and infuriating mouth. Dean turned over if only to bring Sam out of his line of sight. If Sam thought that was weird, he didn’t say anything.

In the morning they made it all the way to Kansas. By the time they arrived in the small town they were investigating, Sam only had a few more pages left.

“Ok, I say we check out the victim’s houses first, and then-”

“Wait,” Dean said, “finish the book.” Sam looked at him, a bit bemused.

“Alright.” So Dean drove them to a small picnic area near a local park and Sam read until the end.

The next day, after they had wasted the ghost (a rather unhappy Civil War widow), Dean dropped a worn out copy of Slaughterhouse-Five into Sam’s lap. Sam raised an eyebrow, but if he thought it was weird, he didn’t say anything. Sam was good like that. Without a word, he started reading. Dean drove for hours, listening to Sam’s even voice like it was music. The impulse to lean across the front seat and kiss Sam until he was quiet lurked in the back of his mind. Dean shifted the Impala over the speed limit, watching towns signs disappear in the rearview mirror. So it goes.

 

 

Somewhere deep in Tornado Alley, Dean’s resolve began to crumble.

Sam’s eyes had been trained on the horizon like a guard dog for miles. The sky was churning like water boiling in a pot, grey clouds tumbling over each other. Dean kept on glancing over at him

“Dean.” Sam murmured. “I think a storm is coming.” Dean had told him to stop worrying so much, but when Sam turned on the radio and the static voice of a weather forecaster confirmed Sam’s suspicions, even he had to agree that yes, maybe they should seek shelter. Unfortunately for them, they were driving down what seemed like an endless highway. They needed to go to more places with mountains, Dean decided. He was tired of everything being so damn flat.

“Dean,” Sam said after a moment, eyes still focused on the horizon out of the passenger side window, “look.” Dean followed his gaze.

“Whoa.” He breathed.

“Pull over,” Sam murmured, and Dean listened. They got out of the car in sync, crossing the barren stretch of highway to the large field on the opposite side. Off in the distances, miles away, Dean could see a downpour. The air was electric with it.

“Is that rain?” He asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” Sam confirmed. Dean chuckled, feeling a bit manic.

“Holy shit.” He whispered. Around them, the wind began to pick up speed, the storm fast approaching. From here, Dean felt suddenly defenseless. The rational part of his brain knew it was just a rainstorm, something natural and avoidable. The other part of his brain felt like he was looking at a God. Behind them, the final stretches of sunlight blurred into the overpowering clouds, fast disappearing in a smear of bright reds and pinks. Dean looked at Sam, as real and terrifying as the storm.

“Hey Sammy,” he murmured. Sam turned to look at him just as the first drops found them. They were soaked within seconds. Sam burst out laughing.

“Yeah?” He shouted over the din of the storm. Dean was laughing now too. They must’ve looked like idiots, standing there in the middle of the storm, letting themselves get drenched.

“Hey,” Dean repeated with a grin.

“Hi,” Sam beamed and Dean was kissing him. Tilting his head upwards, his hand settled on Sam’s cheek, slick with rain. Dean could feel him smile.

“We should, uh,” Sam began once they pulled away, “we should get back in the car.”

“Ok,” Dean said, breathless.

“Ok.” Sam agreed, tugging Dean in by the waist and kissing him again. Dean felt like he could melt away with the rain. Everything was reduced to the feeling of Sam’s lips on his own.

“I’m serious.” Sam insisted, pulling away with a grin.

“Hey, you’re the one who kissed me that time.” Dean reminded. Sam rolled his eyes, giving Dean’s hand a gentle tug.

Dean wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do when they finally got back in the car. His hands hesitated over the wheel.

“That was uh,” Sam exhaled, voice muffled under the pounding rain.

“We should,” Dean began at the same time. Sam glanced over at him, running a hand through his soaking wet hair. It had always been like this. Dean had just never realized before now.

“Let’s go somewhere with mountains,” Sam said after a moment. Dean grinned.

“Sure.” He agreed. Sam tugged a beat up copy of On The Road out from under his seat. Dean leaned across the front seat and kissed him again. It was something brand new.

 

 

At a diner in the mountains, Sam glanced up at Dean over a lukewarm plate of eggs.

“You know, I wanted to kiss you too.” He said. “Before, I mean.” Dean looked at him, discarding the coffee stirrer he’d been twirling between his fingers.

“When?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugged. “I just knew I did.” Dean smiled slowly.

“Well, how could you resist.” Dean gestured to himself in general. Sam chucked a sugar packet at him. Dean moved to lean across the table the kiss him. Sam beat him to the punch.

“Uh,” the waitress beside their table cleared her throat. Sam shot backward, face bright red. Dean laughed, accepting the check the waitress handed them.

“Dude, you look like a tomato.” Dean chuckled. Sam shot him a glare, but Dean could still see his smile. On the way back to the car, Dean watched Sam tilt his head up towards the sun. He wanted to kiss him, again and again until he was tired of it (which he was pretty sure he’d never be). It was impossible to ignore.

So, he didn’t.


End file.
